


The B Stands for Batcave

by iBear



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:48:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iBear/pseuds/iBear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sherlock Holmes was Batman, and Watson was his Robin, a series of five drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The B Stands for Batcave

**Author's Note:**

> A Sherlock Holmes AU/Crossover. Inspired by a rant with one of my friends and written in her honor.

1\. Alfred

“He climbed down the well again,” Mrs. Hudson whispered into the phone, scandalized and worried. “You know how he is, dear. This isn’t going to end well.”

She waited patiently for a response, more measured and thoughtful. She nodded respectfully, took a deep breath, and then shouted, “But you haven’t seen him, have you? Did you think Japan was just for laughs! He’s not just a bit eccentric, dear. He’s your brother, and that means he’s _amazing_.”

Another pause.

“Right then. It’s time for me to bring him his tea, anyway,” Mrs. Hudson replied, hanging up the phone with a click just a bit too loud. She loaded the tea tray with his more common food preferences nowadays: protein bars and vegetable shakes. Tea was frivolous and crumpets were useless.

She rappelled down the well on the line he had set for her specifically. It had been a few years since her service, but she hadn’t gotten too rusty. She could still infiltrate a base with the best of them, and he wasn’t there yet.

But he would be, soon. Standing in the middle of the cave, surrounded by the foul smell of bats and stale air, Sherlock looked oddly content. Determined, as he had been for years. Scared and almost relieved because of that.

Mrs. Hudson couldn’t help the feeling of dread crawling into her stomach. Or the brief spark of hope she felt when she saw him.

 

2\. Lucius Fox  
“Stealing Kevlar from your own brother, Sherlock? That’s a bit much, even for your worse years,” Mycroft drawled, stepping out from the shadows as Sherlock almost dropped the experimental armor he had been shoving into his bag.

“I don’t see why you care. You’re filthy rich,” Sherlock shot back. His once disheveled curls tamed back into a more utilitarian trim—he was close to ready, then. “I’m just your eccentric brother.”

“Who fancies himself a PI. Yes, I saw your website,” Mycroft replied. He tapped his umbrella against the floor thoughtfully for a moment. “You know, it was horrifying trying to run the company and rear you at the same time.”

Sherlock’s shoulders drooped for a moment, almost as if in guilt, but then they stiffened. Mycroft watch his brother throw his arms about in exasperation and thought if Sherlock had learned anything from his travels, it was how to act. “Not this again.”

“Mummy and Father wouldn’t want this for you,” Mycroft appealed, knowing it wouldn’t work.

“They loved this city,” Sherlock shot back.

“They loved you more,” he insisted, watching Sherlock go quiet.

“It was horrifying,” Sherlock stated, as if he weren’t explaining. “I was horrified. For so long. I _need something_ …”

“I know. Most people in this city do,” Mycroft replied, strong and sure, as if he wasn’t giving up. “Bottom shelf. I had it made for you. The cape will glide, and there are some toys that might come in handy.”

“… Thank you,” Sherlock whispered, and then he was gone in a blink, the bottom shelf left open and empty in his wake.

Mycroft needed something to believe in too.

 

3\. Robin  
The Batman was a legend. A boogeyman told to terrible children to keep them from ending up in London’s newest criminal asylum. So the papers insisted, but John Watson had seen the shadow for himself. What’s more, he felt the changes. The dark clouds over London were getting steadily darker, smoggier, but somehow less frightening. People seemed less afraid. For the first time in ages, since he’d come back from the war at least, he could see kids playing in the street again.

His psychologist thought this was an unhealthy fixation for him. A way for him to avoid his PTSD and his real issues by becoming obsessed with a man-bat, and John couldn’t really deny that. Maybe that was all it was, but it was keeping him sane, keeping him limping his way through life, so he kept organizing his newspaper clippings and stumbling around dark corners at night.

In the end, he only got to talk to Batman once. He was being mugged, and the Batman swooped in to save him. “I keep seeing you. Stop that,” the man replied, in a posh British accent, covered in some sort of gruff affect. That was all he needed, John realized, that was it.

He stopped seeing his psychologist, and he started doing research. Posh meant rich, meant _old_ , some sort of older family then. Maybe one with a stake in London—not just any stake, but a good one, he felt. John found the name ‘Holmes,’ and then the article about two boys being orphaned. It made sense, he thought, and couldn’t decide if he was mad yet.

John went to the address anyway, dawdling around outside. Finding the well was a coincidence. _Falling_ into the well was a mistake.

“I told you we should have covered that up first, dear,” an old woman’s voice said. John opened his eyes against the pain and saw the same old woman holding a gun to his head.

Then he looked over to see Sherlock Holmes. “I thought I told you to stop it,” he drawled, but there was a quirk to his lips, and John realized that while _everything_ hurt, his leg didn’t give out when Sherlock pulled him up and led him into the Batcave.

 

4\. Catwoman  
“You got yourself a pet! Does he sing?” she drawled, jumping down to stand next to where Sherlock, or rather _the Batman_ , was brooding.

“What do you want, Irene?” he asked, scanning the area around them. Irene knew, though Sherlock probably didn’t, that they were right on top of his Batcave—or at least the extension that led into Holmes Manor. Their grounds were oh so big.

“I just wanted to check in on you, darling. I stole some state secrets yesterday, and you weren’t there. I thought something might have gone wrong—and then I heard about Bird Boy,” she said. “You know cats _eat_ birds, don’t you?”

“Leave him alone,” Sherlock bit out, as terse and stoic as ever, but Irene gaped.

“Oh my. You _like_ him,” she gasped. “You really like him!”

“I don’t generally work with people I hate,” he drawled in return, but she saw his eyes flutter, the slightest tell that was worth as much as a blush.

Irene laughed so hard she _cackled_. “You’re adorable! And oh so unpredictable. He must be something,” she concluded.

“He’s… good,” Sherlock allowed, and if _that_ wasn’t layered with hurts and wants and disbelief, Irene wasn’t the best thief in London.

“Then I’m glad for you,” she whispered into his ear, jumping back when he flicked his cape at her. “And in thanks, I’m going to tell you that the underground is _buzzing_ with excitement. Or should I say… laughing? Something big is coming.”

“Noted,” Sherlock said, because he knew that at the end of the day, Irene was right with him. She might have been a thief, but she was a Londoner too. This was her city as much as it was his. “Wait—thanks for what?”

“For telling me how you really feel!” she said, as if it was obvious. She unfurled the whip at her belt and swung it at a nearby building. “I’m glad to know you like me enough to work with me, darling.”

And then she was off, laughing into the night as the Big, Bad Bat gritted his teeth from his perch.

 

5\. Commissioner Gordon and…  
“What, there are two of you now?” Lestrade asked, gaping. “What are you supposed to be, Bird Boy?” he questioned while his team hastened to turn off the Bat Signal.

That was how they worked. New Scotland Yard hated depending on the Batman. They were slow and reluctant to turn the Signal on, but embarrassingly quick to shut it off. Too full of pride to keep their citizens safe, which was how they ended up with the Batman anyway. After all, nightmares didn’t come to life when policemen did their jobs. He was just glad this nightmare was on their side.

“No, I’m _Robin_ ,” the other man insisted with a resigned tone that told Lestrade this wasn’t the first time he’d been asked. “You know what? Never mind. What do you need?”

“We’ve got ourselves a big one,” he said, and suddenly became solemn. “You didn’t see what he left behind. He’s not—I mean, none of them are sane, but he’s more than that. He’s twisted.”

They walked through hallways, down all the floors. They couldn’t even keep him with the general population—he’d drive them all to mass murder. So they’d dug out a tiny corner of the archives, throw up four cushioned walls, and locked him in a straightjacket for good measure. But the entire Yard felt cursed, haunted by the prisoner they kept below the floors.

Lestrade couldn’t help his shudder as he led them to the observation window. He couldn’t help hesitating.

“Well, come on!” the Batman urged, uncharacteristically impatient. Maybe he knew something. Maybe he was in on it, like Sally had said. Lestrade looked at his tense jaw and Robin’s more understanding patience and thought about what it would be like if he was. If the nightmare wasn’t really there to save them like he had hoped.

God, he hoped that wasn’t true. London wouldn’t survive.

He flipped the switch.

The man seated on the floor had scraggy, dirty hair. His face was badly covered in white makeup, and his lips were drawn back in a perpetual smile lined with red. He looked up at the sudden light, his neck moving back and forth like a repulsive reptile. In odds with all of it, his purple suit still seemed perfectly pressed below his straightjacket.

“Hello, Batman!” he shouted, impossibly aware of his audience. “I’ve been waiting _so_ long to meet you.”

“He calls himself The Joker,” Lestrade introduced.

“Hmm. Sounds a bit _serious_ out there! What’s wrong, Bats? Won’t you come and play?”


End file.
